


Dead People Can’t Talk

by Monsieur_Grenouille



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Dom Dallon Weekes, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Sub Brendon Urie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24407281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsieur_Grenouille/pseuds/Monsieur_Grenouille
Summary: Dallon has had enough
Relationships: Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes
Kudos: 15





	Dead People Can’t Talk

**Author's Note:**

> My family’s watching The Brady Bunch, and I can’t stop laughing at how they look like highly trained mannequins. Alice is the only human in their world of fake smiles and happily ever afters.

“Dallon, I’m dead.” Brendon lay sprawled out on the floor, tattooed arms flung past his ears and over his head. His legs stretched out on the carpet. Dallon sighs and reaches down to grab Brendon’s leg. 

“C’mon, Brendon. We have an interview to attend.”

Brendon shakes his head. "I don't want to go to the interview! I'm sick of being famous," he complains. 

Dallon rolls his eyes. "Can you stop being a diva for thirty seconds so we can attend this interview?"

"I can't attend an interview because I'm dead." 

Dallon's about to give Brendon a lecture about adulthood and responsibilities when he suddenly remembers that Brendon's a very kinky fellow who sometimes would rather be punished than get lectured. "You're dead," Dallon muses, "Is that so?"

Brendon nods his head. "So fuckin dead." 

"Alright then, I might as well treat you like a dead person if you want that so badly." He tugs lightly at the singer’s leg, dragging him slowly across the floor. Brendon’s shirt comes up a little and he feels the coarse carpet creating friction against his skin. 

“DALLON! DALLON STOP! CARPET BURN!” Brendon whines and kicks his other leg at Dallon. Dallon laughs and continues dragging him. The burn doesn’t stop, so Brendon complains louder. “Dallon, you tall shit, let go of me!” 

Dallon shakes his head and stops at the door. “Dead people can’t talk, Brendon. I’m just getting rid of the body.” Before he unlocks the door, he lets go of Brendon’s leg. Brendon starts to scurry across the floor, but Dallon’s quicker than that. His hands lash out to grab Brendon’s waist and grip him tightly. 

“No! No! Dallon, STAHP IT!” he giggles as the bassist lifts him up. He’s hoping to be carried bridal style, but Dallon puts him over his shoulder upside down. Brendon’s hair flops and grazes the ground as Dallon walks out of the hotel room and carries him to the elevator. It feels like his life is in Dallon’s hands; he’s one drop away from a concussion. “Dallon,” he whimpers, “I’m trusting you not to drop me. You’re annoying as hell, but I still trust you.” 

Dallon chuckles and adjusts Brendon into a more secure hold. Brendon’s jeans sink with gravity until he can feel Dallon’s long warm fingers clasped around his cold bare ankles. Everything’s upside down in his view and his shirt is basically useless. Everyone can see his nipples. “Dallon, you’re humiliating me,” he admits. 

Dallon laughs, “What do you think I’m doing this for? If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to get a punishment. That’s how it works, babe.” He shakes Brendon teasingly. Brendon yelps and shuts up immediately afterwards. He can sense the smug smirk on Dallon’s face. _It’s not fair_ , he thinks to himself, _Who put him in charge?_ Even though he loves it when Dallon does things like this to him, it always feels unfair because Dallon’s putting him in his place. Why does he have to be good all the time? 

“Are we almost to the car?” Brendon asks as Dallon’s checking out at the front desk. 

As a punishment for talking, Dallon strikes a conversation with the lady at the front desk. “I see you're wearing a Queen shirt?” he says with fake interest. 

The lady chuckles. “I don’t listen to them. This was just something I found in my boyfriend’s closet. Who are you carrying?” she cranes her neck. “Oh my god, is that Brendon Urie?” she asks, astonished. “Oh my god, I’m such a big fan! Wait... take off your sunglasses.” 

Dallon blushes and takes off his shades. He just wanted a conversation without being recognized. Now, Brendon was probably feeling praised. 

The lady squeals. “Oh my god, Dallon Weekes! I love you guys so much. Um, Dallon, why are you carrying Brendon like that? I hope it’s okay to ask.” 

Dallon puts his sunglasses back on. He tries to pass as funny and sassy when he says, “Brendon’s position is a personal matter. He was being uncooperative, and that’s all I can tell you. Thank you for talking to us and have a nice day. No one’s taking footage, right?” 

People were surrounding them with their phones and cameras. Dallon waves dismissively. “Turn them off,” he says, “Don’t post any of it, please. Thank you.” He takes long strides on the way to the bus, forcing Brendon’s head to hit against his legs every so often. In the bus, Dallon places Brendon on a bunk and holds onto his wrists. “That didn’t go the way I planned,” he begins, “And you got praised too soon.” 

Brendon grins. “I guess that says something about your dominance.” 

Dallon growls at Brendon. “Take that back.” 

“No.” 

Dallon reaches out to grab Brendon’s throat, then stops his arm midair. A smirk crosses his face, and it makes Brendon anxious. “No talking,” the tall man commands, “Not unless either me or the interviewer talks to you. All answers are three sentences or less. Every extra sentence equals another hour of silence, and every breaking of silence adds another hour.” 

Brendon swallows hard. “But I love talking,” he objects. 

Dallon leans in and gives him a kiss, then whispers in his ear, “You’re dead, remember? Dead people can’t talk.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I love Dom Dallon


End file.
